


stargazing

by allforsammy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Codependency, Episode Tag, Gen, Post-Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Samulet Fix-It, gencest, voicemail fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allforsammy/pseuds/allforsammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>8.23 Coda - Sam used to want something for himself. Voicemail and amulet fix-it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stargazing

There never used to be a problem.

So Sam’s sometimes an arrogant, selfish son of a bitch, so what? He’s always been a good kid, always had good intentions, even if he had to be an annoying bastard to do it all. It’s not like Sam doesn’t care, the kid’s got a crazy guilt complex and Dean will be the first to admit that what with all the crap life’s dumped on him, he’s got all the reason in the world to _stop_ caring, but he hasn’t. But Sam’s always wanted something for himself, always had a good sense of self-preservation – and if that makes him selfish, Dean’s more than fine with it.

Besides, it’s not a problem and never has been, Sam wants the best for Sam, Dean wants the best for Sam – there’s no conflict of interest there.

So that’s not the problem. The problem is, Dean can’t pinpoint when exactly it was that _that_ changed, and landed the two of them in such a mess. That’s not to say he doesn’t know when it could have all started, in hindsight. It could have been after the start of the Apocalypse. Could have been Dean’s trip down to Hell. Hell, it could have started when Dean made the deal to save Sam. None of these options are very welcome – if Dean takes one job more seriously than hunting, it’s taking care of Sam.

Bang-up job on that. He doesn’t even know when his brother started thinking his stint on life was negotiable, doesn’t even know, when he’s been living in the guy’s pocket for years. Negotiable his ass, and not just because Dean gives a damn. Sam used to have a life outside of Dean, used to _want_ a life outside of Dean – and he’s got a good idea who successfully killed that life.

“’S not your fault.”

Dean doesn’t even bother to honour that with a response. Sam can think whatever he wants, Dean knows the truth.

“Stop blaming yourself, you couldn’t have known.”

Yeah, whatever. He should have known. Shouldn’t have had his eyes hollowed out with all the wallowing. Dean isn’t strong like Sam, he knows that, but he’s always been able to put Sam first, has always been able to push Sam to the surface even while he was drowning. A half-dead man’s last effort would’ve meant something, except that half-dead man didn’t even bother.

“Dean.” Sam sounds breathless, like the pain’s coming back again, like he’s got something lodged in his throat – _no no no no no don’t think of that don’t think of that don’t_ – “I mean it. Stop.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He looks at Sam, curled up on his side of the Impala. “Y’need anything? Tylenol? Water?”

Sam shakes his head gingerly. _Headache_. Funny how he knows all this stuff now. “I’m fine.”

_I’m fine._ Okay. Sure. Just swallow it all, right? Makes things easier. Like he’s been doing for the last goodness knows how many years.

“Dean.” For the love of – _stop._ Just freaking _stop_ saying his name like he’s still got big brother’s prerogative, like he’s someone he’s not.

“Yeah, Sammy?”

Sam looks at him for a couple of moments, like he’s trying really hard to think of how to save Dean. “Can we uh – stop?”

He pulls the car over on the shoulder of the road before his mind even really registers Sam’s words. Oh _God_ , has he missed something again? “What? What do you need, Sam? You need – ”

But Sam’s shaking his head and he doesn’t look like he’s got to hurl or anything, although the pinch in his forehead means he’s got a killer headache, and the way he’s holding himself means he’s still feeling the remnants of pain, the ridiculous way he’s got himself curled in a ball at the corner between the seat and the Impala means he’s cold – “I didn’t mean… Dean, I just – we haven’t… we haven’t watched the stars in a long time. I just – ”

_Oh._ Right. Yeah, that he can do. “Okay, okay – yeah, we’re going now. Okay.”

He sounds like a moron repeating himself like that, and Sam apparently thinks so too, quirks a weak smile in amusement. “I’m not leaving, Dean.”

“Yeah, don’t stay on my account.” The words are out before he can stop them, and he doesn’t want to take them back, because that’s what he wants. He wants Sam to have a life. He wants Sam to stay because he wants to, not because Dean needs him to and he thinks he owes Dean something.

Sam falls silent, and for a brief moment his heart seizes in his chest, like Sam might just have taken him up on that, might have stopped holding on for him, might have – he looks over, and Sam is just staring at him, like a freaking _lost puppy_ , like Dean’s just taken away his freaking reason to live. “If not yours, then whose?”

Screw this. Screw Sam and screw Dean and screw everything. He can’t deal with this now. “Shut up, Sam,” he growls, and slams the gas pedal.

“I’m serious, Dean. If not yours, then whose?”

Freaking Sam is like a freaking dog with a freaking bone. “ _Yours_ ,” he snaps, and the car is silent. “Yours,” he says again, quieter. “You’ve got to – you’ve got to live for something, man. School, a girl, kids – whatever. You’ve got to want something.”

Sam just stares at him. “I _do_ want something,” he says, sounding for all the world like he’s offended that Dean even suggested otherwise. “I want you alive, _safe_.” He shrugs. “Happy.”

“Something for _yourself_ , not just crap I’ve fed you, made you think – ”

“You don’t get to say that,” Sam suddenly hisses, leaning in, crowding Dean. “You don’t get to _think_ that, not after all we’ve been through – you don’t get to just – hell, just… say these things, like we’re not… literally one person, like – ”

“Yeah?” Dean’s still watching the road, eyes determinedly staring ahead, refusing to meet Sam’s. “So what’s that talk about some stupid sacrifice so other people will live? That include me, huh?”

Beat. “W-what?”

_Damn it_. Shouldn’t have turned, shouldn’t have looked at those lost puppy eyes. Freaking… Dean swears and rips his eyes away. “Look – I can’t do this without you. Not closing the gates of Hell, not _hunting_ , not cleaning up whatever… mess the angels made – _living._ I can’t… Sammy, what the hell, we’ve been through this before. I told you I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t just… _live_ , with you dead. Did you just _forget_ all of that, just – ”

“Yeah, well,” a soft, pained chuckle, “when your brother flat out tells you he’s gonna – that he’s just… just _done_ – that you’re a monster, just some… blood-sucking – ”

The car swerves dangerously and screeches to a halt. “ _When the hell did I ever say that?_ ”

“You said I was a monster – ”

“- And then I _apologized_ – ”

“ – _twice._ And a vampire, and you were gonna… Look, it – it doesn’t matter. I know I deserved it, I just… it kinda explains why I – y’know…” He looks up.

Dean’s staring. “Sam…”

“Look, I’m sorry I brought it up, it’s – it shouldn’t even matter, you know, it was a lifetime ago…”

“Sam, I never said you were a vampire.”

There’s a flash of hurt anger as Sam gives him a half-incredulous look, then he’s blinking it away, and nodding, and hunching deeper into himself. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Did you hallucinate that?”

This time the hurt is deeper, more incredulous – like Dean’s breaking a promise – tinged with betrayal, and doesn’t recede from his eyes. “No. Look, just… forget it. I’m tired.”

“When did you hear that, Sam? Did Lucifer – ”

“No! No, it wasn’t him. Just - It was a long time ago, you’ve forgotten it. I’ll just… You never said anything. It – we’ll just – it didn’t happen, alright? It doesn’t matter.”

Dean’s still staring at him, quiet and with a little line between his eyebrows like he gets when Sam’s hallucinating something, except his eyes are open like they were in the chapel, not guarded as usual, but like he’s trying to understand Sam, the way they looked when ten-month-old Sammy had just started to babble and Dean was still learning to speak Sam. “It does matter,” he says, and Sam’s the one to be confused now.

If Dean’s just trying to deny it all, like he thought he was doing just a moment ago, then he should be relieved to let it go. Hell, even if he weren’t, it’s not like Dean guns for chick-flick moments on a good day, and it’s been a monumentally bad one.

“Look, it’s not like I have your… freaky, geeky Sasquatch-sized brain, but – I’d remember if I said something like that, Sammy. Whatever you heard… you must have – ”

“Voicemail,” Sam blurts out. He knows what Dean was going to say, and even though he’s now kind of convinced Dean wouldn’t be deliberately, maliciously tearing down his once-precarious hold on reality, he’s really not up to hearing it again. “You left me a voicemail.” He digs his phone out, scrolling down to his one saved message, presses play, then tosses it to Dean.

_‘Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I’d either have to save you or kill you. Well, I’m giving you fair warning. I’m done trying to save you. You’re a monster, Sam — a vampire. You’re not you anymore. And there’s no going back.’_

He’s heard it far too many times to flinch at the cold, indifferent voice, _Dean’s_ voice, but Dean is staring at the phone like it didn’t just play back to him what he said a few years back. Like…

“I didn’t say it,” Dean is saying, but it sounds detached from Dean and distant from Sam.

By this point, Sam’s just… tired. He holds his hand out for the phone, but Dean grabs him at the wrist, tight. His grip is shaking.

“Sam… Sammy – ”

He can’t. He shakes his head and feels like he’s being choked. Like something just dislodged from the ground he was standing on, like someone just took oxygen out of the air around him, like he’s choking, and falling, and –

Something lands, firm and gentle and insistent, on the back of his neck, and a light pressure on his pulse point. Something so warm and familiar and _Dean_ , he just goes along with it, a distant part of him expecting to be pulled in for a hug, the ones that Dean’s been giving out so often, but his forehead collides gently with something equally hard, and he opens his eyes, still laboriously pulling air through clenched teeth.

Twin murky green eyes ( _Dean’s_ ), huge and worried, appear right in front of him.

“Sammy, I thought – I swear, I called you to apologize. Said we were still brothers, still family. Said – said I’m not Dad.”

He’s shaking his head minutely, forehead still propped against Dean’s, and they’re so close he can feel Dean’s breath puff out against his lips.

“You’ve got to believe me,” Dean’s saying, “I would _never_ – please, Sammy…”

He pulls in another breath, reassured of the oxygen levels around him now that he’s breathing in Dean’s air, closes his eyes, and nods once, jerkily.

Dean’s exhale is drawn out, a warm gust on his upper lip.

Neither of them move. This intimacy is new, yet so old – ancient, nearly – and Dean is there, breathing against him, palm warm on his nape, thumb light on his throat, checking his pulse. Strangely enough, it’s just what they’ve been doing all their lives, what they’ve both always been fighting to keep – breath and warmth and touch and life, Sam and Dean, _alive. Together._

The sky is still a little bright from the residual light of falling angels, like it’s misted over dark blue, but the brightest stars are shining through.

Sam falls asleep on the hood, nose brushing against Dean’s, fist loosely curled around something.

Starlight catches on it.

_And happy._


End file.
